not .my.turn.

Not My Turn

The last time I got shot was in Northeast Los Angeles. It was 3 a.m. when we pulled up to a house to score — quiet street, headlights off, just another night in the life. But then, out of the shadows on my side of the car, a youngster stepped out. Couldn’t have been older than seventeen, but the steel in his eyes made him look ancient.

He walked right up to my window and asked, “Where you from?”

I looked him dead in the face and said, “Maravilla.”

Without hesitation, he pulled the smallest AK-47 I had ever seen from behind his back. No stock, no barrel — just a compact pocket-sized machine of death. He pointed it at Chilly Willy in the passenger seat, who said quickly, “I ain’t affiliated.”

The kid kept switching his aim between us, stepping back like he was lining up a decision that couldn’t be undone. Chilly went for his seatbelt, cracked open the door — and that’s when the bullets started flying.

The first one tore through my side — clean, in and out. Simple. But the second felt like God Himself swung a sledgehammer through my back. It knocked the air out of me, cracked my ribs, ejected me from my seatbelt like a ragdoll. I collapsed out the driver’s side, ears ringing, dogs barking, thick gun smoke curling around me. My jacket — my Levi corduroy — was soaked in blood and burning.

I dragged myself up the porch steps of the nearest house and pounded on the security door, begging for someone — anyone — to call an ambulance. Nothing. Lights off. Curtains closed. I could feel the blood pouring. I could feel the seconds counting down.

Then I heard her.

A woman’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “What the fuck is going on out here?!”

I staggered off the porch. “I’ve been shot! Please call an ambulance!”

She stepped out from the back house, wearing a black Rich Gannon Raiders jersey, hair tied back, chola to the bone. “You’ve been shot, motherfucker?” she yelled.

“Yes!”

She told me to wait on the porch and disappeared inside. I was panicking — either that kid was coming back to finish the job, or I was going to die alone on this woman’s porch. She came back, phone in hand, yelling into it: “There’s a motherfucker bleeding on my porch — I ain’t seen shit!”

I could feel my jacket swell. My pocket was filled with blood and something thicker — flesh, fat, matter. Burned. I scooped it out with my finger and flung it onto the concrete. She saw it and screamed, “What the fuck is that?”

I looked her in the eye. “My insides.”

She lost it. “You better not die on my fucking porch!”

My legs buckled. I dropped to my knees. I had a rosary tucked into my shirt — I pulled the cross to my lips and whispered, “Please, God… forgive me. Don’t let me go to hell.”

She handed me the phone. 911 asked if I saw who did it. I said no. I wasn't snitching, even on death’s doorstep. I handed it back. My vision dimmed. The world faded. I told myself over and over: Stay awake, Mike. Don’t fade. Stay with it.

And then I heard the sirens. Getting closer. I begged they were for me.

When the ambulance pulled up, I slipped her my dope without thinking. She looked at me and snapped, “What the fuck is this?” I just flung it into the street. “It’s nothing.”

They loaded me in, and the EMT hovered above me, trying to plug the holes, trying to keep me here. “Please,” I whispered. “Don’t let me knock out.”

He didn’t promise me life. He just said, “It’s gonna be alright.”

We pulled up to USC Medical Center — County. The trauma bay was chaos — people yelling, machines beeping, steel tools clinking. A man next to me bled out from a shotgun wound. I watched life leave him — eyes glassing over, flatline, white sheet.

I could barely breathe. My diaphragm was inflamed, crushed, something. I couldn’t pull air. I couldn’t cry out. I was drowning inside my own body. I thought, This is it. I’m ready to die... but I don’t want to die.

Then I felt her.

A breath on my ear. Soft. But her voice struck like thunder:

“It’s not your turn.”

I opened my eyes and swung at her. Reflex. Instinct. She was standing over me in brown scrubs. Still. Calm. She didn’t speak again — she didn’t have to.

A nurse in blue rushed in to calm me down. “Who was that?” I asked, pointing toward the woman walking away.

The nurse gave me a strange look. “No one here wears brown scrubs.”

I stared down the hall and saw her one last time. She turned around. Smiled. Then vanished.

---

Recovery was brutal. The wounds healed slower than the guilt. I left that hospital physically weaker, but spiritually cracked open. I kept hearing her voice: It’s not your turn.

I thought about Felipe, killed at 14. About the homeboys and homegirls, still in Maravilla, still loyal. About all the destruction I’d justified in the name of survival. I was alive. But why?

I didn’t have answers. Only a new kind of hunger — not for dope, not for revenge, but for something real. I stopped carrying heat. Stopped chasing poison. I started speaking to God in whispers — not because I knew how, but because I hoped He was still listening.

I don’t know who she was. Angel, spirit, ghost, grace. All I know is, she came when I needed her most and left me with seven words that still echo every day:

“You’re still here for a reason. Now go find it.”

Shoutout to the Real Ones

To the woman in the black Rich Gannon Raiders jersey — you didn’t know me, but you didn’t let me die alone. You came out the back house in the middle of the night, Raiders gear on, attitude sharp, heart even sharper. You called 911 like it was war, held it down like only a true chola could. You didn’t flinch at the blood, the chaos, or the mess I brought to your porch. You saved my life without even meaning to. You were fire and backbone and unexpected grace in a world that usually looks the other way. I’ll never forget you.

And to the lady in the brown scrubs — whoever you were, whatever you were… thank you. You spoke to my soul in a moment when I thought I was done. “It’s not your turn.” That wasn’t just a whisper — that was a command. You reminded me there’s something bigger than bullets, than the street, than my past. You weren’t supposed to be there, but you were. Just long enough to keep me alive. Just long enough to wake me up.

To both of you:

You showed up when it counted.

You showed me that mercy can wear a jersey, or a mystery.

You’re forever part of my story — and if this ever becomes a film, a book, or anything bigger...

You're in it. Forever.